J-J was terrified of dogs, the legacy of a long-ago encounter with a neighbour's alsatian, and he knew that this one couldn't wait to tear him apart. His instinct told him to turn and leg it. No video, no name on the credits, was worth this.
'Fucking say something, then, yeah?'
J-J couldn't take his eyes off the dog. He could smell it now, the rich sour smell of fear. The alsatian had put him in hospital for the night. This one would probably kill him.
'Fucking deaf are you? Lost yer tongue?'
At last, J-J managed to summon a response. He'd made Daniel write down his own name and address. Now he unfolded the scrap of paper. A hand shot out and grabbed it. Bitten nails. Heavy rings. A tattoo of some kind, blue dots across the knuckles. The head came up, eyes scanning the street beyond J-J's shoulder.
'If this is a fucking stitch-up…'
J-J shook his head with a violence that took him by surprise. No stitching-up. Promise.
'You know what I'm saying?'
J-J nodded at the scrap of paper. Trust me. Please.
'He told you where to find us?'
Yes.
'You some kind of friend of his?'
Yes.
'He gave you money?'
Yes.
The door opened wider and J-J stepped inside. The smell of the dog was overwhelming, the animal more frenzied than ever at this sudden intrusion, and J-J kept his distance, his back against the wall, praying that the bannister would hold.
Someone else appeared from a room at the back, boxer shorts, tattoo on his neck, and a red number 9 football shirt with Carling scrolled across the front. There was a brief conversation, an exchange of grins, a nod. The face at the door gave the dog a kick, then turned back to J-J, his hand extended, palm up. Gimme. J-J produced the 50 note. The face wanted more. Out came the two twenties. More still.
J-J shook his head, gestured helplessly, nothing left, then he felt a sharp crack as his head hit the wall. Hands dived into the pockets of his jeans, searching for the rest, and he shut his eyes, forcing himself to submit, to go limp, praying that this nightmare would end.
Finally, a handful of coins richer, they left him alone. He backed towards the front door, away from the dog, uncertain what was supposed to happen next. Street prices in Portsmouth had never been cheaper.
Everyone was telling him so. 90 should keep Daniel going for a couple of days, nine wraps at least. So where were they?
The face stepped past him and pulled the front door open. For a second or two, J-J was tempted to resist, to protest, to demand their end of the deal, but then he felt the sweet chillness of the street, and he was out in the rain again, gladder than he could imagine. The face was back inside, the mouth framing a message for his rich friend. Later, he was saying. Tell him we'll be round later.
Parked three cars up the street, DC Paul Winter was trying to work out how many shots they'd taken.
'Six.' Jimmy Suttle was studying the panel on the back of the camera.
'Four when he first turned up. Two just now.'
'Full face?'
'A couple at least. We should pull him now. He has to be carrying.
Has to be.'
'Leave it.' Winter was watching the tall, awkward figure hurrying away down the street. Last time he'd seen Faraday's son, the boy had got himself mixed up with a bunch of young lunatics from Somers-town. A couple of years later, he'd evidently graduated to Class A narcotics.
'No?' Suttle had started to open the car door. 'The guy's on a nicking. That wasn't a social call.'
'You're right, son. Give me the camera.'
'Why?'
'Because one of us has to stay here.'
'And me?'
'I'd move sharpish if I were you.' Winter nodded towards the end of the street. 'Follow him and bell me.'
'Follow him? I thought we were into bodies? Scalps?'
'We are.' Winter was examining the camera. 'Do you know who that boy belongs to?'
Faraday made his way to the Sally Port Hotel, resisting the temptation to enquire about Graham Wallace at the tiny reception desk. Had this latest rabbit from Willard's hat been in residence long? Did Tumbril have a permanent booking on room 6?
Climbing the carpeted stairs to the first floor, Faraday couldn't rid himself of the image of Nick Hayder, unconscious in his hospital bed, helpless in a cat's cradle of monitor leads and transfusion lines.
Managing an investigation this complex, trying to remember who was supposed to know what, would have been enough to drive any detective to the edge. No wonder he'd felt under siege.
A soft knock at room 6 drew an instant response. Faraday found himself looking at a tall, well-built man in his late twenties. He was wearing an expensive shirt tucked loosely into a pair of well-cut dark trousers. The silk tie, loosened at the collar, was a swirl of reds laced with a vivid turquoise. Despite the laugh lines around his eyes and the tiny gold ring in one ear, he looked tense.
'You are?'
'Joe Faraday.'
'Come in. Graham Wallace.' He had the briefest handshake.
Faraday stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The desk beneath the window was spread with paperwork and a linen jacket hung on the back of the chair. Beside the bed, a pair of Gucci loafers.
'Tea? There's one bag left.'
'No thanks.' Faraday eyed the empty packet of biscuits beside the kettle. 'I could use a sandwich, though.'
'Ring down. They'll bring something up.' Wallace stepped across to the phone and dialled a number, then handed it to Faraday. Faraday ordered two tuna salad sandwiches, adding he'd pay for them on the way out.
When he'd put the phone down, Wallace gestured towards the empty chair.
'I'm sorry about Nick.' He had a flat London accent. 'Your guvnor said you were mates.'
'That's right.' Faraday nodded. 'And we still are.'
There was a moment of silence while the men eyed each other, then Faraday sank into the chair. u/c officers were notoriously wary, often more paranoid than the targets they were tasked to sting. Their very survival frequently depended on the lowest possible exposure to fellow officers.
'How tight did Nick keep all this?' Faraday gestured towards the desk.
'Only it would be helpful to know.'
'Very tight. The only guys I ever deal with are Nick and a handler from Special Ops, Terry McNaughton.'
'What about Willard?'
'Your govnor?' Wallace glanced up towards the door. 'Never met him till just now. He says he's filling in for Nick.'
'I thought that was my job?'
'It is. That's what he came to tell me.'
'Why didn't Special Ops pass the message?'
'Good question.'
'Did you ask him? Willard?'
'Of course I did.'
'And?'
'He said he was SIO on the job so there was no way he wouldn't know about me. Thought face-to-face was better than a phone call from Special Ops.'
'And you?'
'Me?' He offered Faraday a thin smile. 'A phone call from Special Ops would have done just fine.'
